


The Roadhouse

by CaptainLaserBeam



Series: The TickTock Chronicles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airships, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, Author is not a mechanic, Blow Jobs, Clockpunk, Clocks, Cyborgs, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dystopia, F/M, Fake Science, Gabriel (Supernatural) is Loki, Gay Robots, Harvelle's Roadhouse (Supernatural), Legends, M/M, Mechanics, Mythology - Freeform, Origin Myths, Post-War, Quantum Mechanics, Robot Blow Job, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Sky Pirates, Steampunk, Urban Legends, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 06:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLaserBeam/pseuds/CaptainLaserBeam
Summary: Dean sets out with Castiel to begin his search for Sam in the best (and worst) way he knows how, by airship.What could possibly go wrong.





	The Roadhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm on a roll with this beast. Downhill. Weeeeeeeeeeee
> 
> This is probably past the point of making sense unless you read the previous TickTock stories. (Good luck with the vague plot-hinting, otherwise.)

Despite having traveled on an airship multiple times, there was something about flying that gave Dean the heebeegeebees.

There were plenty of reasons he could list, the most precedent being an absolute certainty of falling to his death, more than likely in a ball of gas-exploding flames. But not even a paranoid Winchester could deny the ease and speed in which air travel was more likely to get him somewhere.

He loved his cranker car, probably more than he should, her sleek black sides and her custom made trim, a one of a kind vision of where the possibilities of tech could take them. For a long time, using machines to create anything more than the complexities of Synthetics was a taboo that Dean had never really understood. A hushed sort of dirty secret that no one dared speak of. 

Sure, there were decent crankers rattling around through the horse-drawns, but considering the sheer amount of technology that even a simple, low-tier, walking talking Tick Tock was capable of, there was no real reason that same tech couldn't be used for other things.

Except it wasn't. 

The blue prints of a Synthetic were a tightly concealed, dangerous secret, the hazards of which could bring the Fuzz (or worse) to your door if you dared to invent something that caught the attention of their product owners and current manufacturers, Letter Industries. The proprietors of robotics owned the patents for basically everything mechanical, but kept a very tight and specific lock on the makings of TickTocks. Taking one apart was illegal, signal tagged, and often followed by a hefty penalty of either imprisonment or a lifelong ban from ever owning one. Not that Dean had ever had a reason, or the means, to purchase what felt like another human being, but even if he did, he wasn't all that apt to attract the attention of a company that encouraged children's stories of losing their limbs.

Still, with what he had available, Dean had built that beauty of a cranker from the ground up, tightened every nut and bolt, and basically invented a completely new engine for her combustible. He'd never seen much of the insides of a TickTock at that point, but his hands had a knack for creating what didn't need to be stolen. It was just something he'd always been good at, a Winchester family trait when it came to specialties. Baby was a beauty, but unfortunately not something he could flaunt without attracting the wrong kind of attention. Invention was everywhere, but forced into shadowed spaces and locked doors because of old laws that made no sense.

There was no better way to get across Europe than in an airship. One of the few places that the military had mostly given up trying to regulate. The skies were huge and open and available, so it was much harder to keep a lid on mechanical wonders when they could lift themselves straight off the ground.

Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end for the tenth time since they'd gotten there, knowing without knowing somehow that Castiel was watching from behind him speculatively. He hadn't exactly let him know about his issues with air travel, and it was his idea to fly in the first place, so he's sure it was a confusing, mortal thing to be so miserable on purpose. But Dean wasn't about to try and start explaining the weirder bits of humanity to an automaton without copious amounts of alcohol involved. Plus he'd literally just avoided death the previous day with a swiftly depleting mainspring of a heartbeat, so he was nearly two sheets to the wind as it was already.

Thankfully, finding the ship they'd come in search of wasn't altogether difficult. Singer's crew tried to stay off the radar more than others, but Bobby was predictable when it came to dock preferences.

“Boy, you look like you'd have to feel better to die.”

Dean startled, turning faster than he should, and feeling the world tilt up on its axis before he caught his balance. The older man ambling towards them rubbing a filthy cloth between his leathery hands looked like nothing more than a grease monkey, smudges of oil and a few small scattered burns decorating his clothing more than any shiny buttons ever would. A faded, Irish eight piece cap was perched high above his ears, and the graying curls of sideburns towards his chin, skin long since given up it's youth-like texture to constant sunlight, and clothes that looked like the hand me downs of a hand me down mechanic. It was a sight for sore eyes indeed, and Dean suddenly felt lighter at the fondness that warmed him.

“Bobby!” He grinned, but not for long before that nauseated feeling rushed in again at the steep cliff pulling focus behind him, then there was very little to be excited about beyond personal discomfort. Dean choked, lifting his arm to his face with an awkward cough before centering himself and clearing his throat. “Good to- good to see you, sir.”

The gruff, belly laugh fit well with the older man's appearance and demeanor, a single bushy eyebrow lifted in disbelief. “Like hell it is. You'd be kilometers from here in a millisecond if you had better reasonin to be. What brings you out to Paris? And kid, if you are planning on an upswallow anytime soon, I suggest you do it over the edge. The missus ain't too fond of orderin to be cleaned what ain't needin cleanin.”

Dean nodded tightly as he squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing and shaking out an arm in some vague and inefficient attempt to say that he was fine. It wasn't until there was a brief touch on his arm that he even remembered he wasn't standing there alone.

“Captain Singer.” Castiel's deep voice was assertive and pointed, stepping in where Dean had been forced to back away. “We appreciate the leniency of your patronage aboard this vessel. Perhaps it would be prudent to have Mr. Winchester board as soon as possible, in order to regain his bearings and reconstitute himself before liftoff to unstable ground.”

Dean blinked his eyes open blearily, taking in the bewildered look on Bobby's face as he took a good long drink of Castiel, standing as strong and immovable as an iron wall at the cliffs of Saint Georges. The steep drop downwards didn't seem to phase him in the least, and really, why would something like falling a mile to their death be bothersome to a Tick Tock?

“Dean.” Bobby said curtly, his hands moving to the thick leather of his tool belt as he re-positioned his stance. “Your message didn't mention no extra meals for this trip.”

Dean nodded, hearing the warning in the words left unsaid. “Yeah, well I uh- I wrote what I wrote in a hurry, before I was- before we decided this one man show was gonna be a duet. Bobby, this is Castiel, Castiel, this is Bobby Singer. Nice to meet you, pleasure to be here, yada yada, let's get this bird in the air, eh? I got places to be.”

Bobby's gaze moved for a second from the impassive expression of the Ticktock back to Dean with a look that told him he could hear every small thing he wasn't saying loud and clear, and wasn't suckering for a word of it.

“Uh huh. Good luck with that pissy attitude, your grace. And for what it's worth, I ain't the Captain. So, _Castiel_, them fancy university words you're spoutin can be redirected elsewhere.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean beat him to it. “Not the Captain? Since when?”

Bobby chuckled, eyes still trained with a thinly veiled distrust at the suited man before him. “Since always, but officially, as of last year. The Roadhouse still flies under the banner of a Singer, thank fuck it just ain't me.”

Dean felt his eyes bulge. “No friggen way, you finally got her to agree to that? How are you still walking, old man?”

“Hey now, have some respect for a pirate's pride at the dock of his wife's ship. I ain't that old.”

“And I ain't kidding, you still have all your fingers. How'd you get Ellen to take the wheel?”

“Nearly died. Again. By the time I was back to straights, she'd already flown her for weeks of command, so alls I had to do was ma'am up and shut up.”

Dean laughed, suddenly feeling better than he had since the moment they'd caught sight of Blanche Station. The airships and dirigibles circling around within and without the enormous, open ceiling had been enough to nearly turn him back around on sight.

“Now that is some good goddamn news, which I am currently in low supply of.”

“So I hear. Words out that the Snatchers reached your front door.”

Dean scowled, a rage boiling up his spine without his consent as he let the anger burn through his veins. Beneath the solid circle of metal attached to his chest, a clench of muscle tightened around the sturdy beat of his clockwork heart.

“I'm gonna find him, Bobby. Whatever it takes.”

“Yeah, I figured. That's usually how it works when it comes to you two morons. I hope whoever took Sam realizes the kind of wasp nest they just swung at. But anyway,” Bobby continued before Dean could respond. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your, uh, companion here? He snob district? Where in the hell did you manage to kidnap this fancy piece of work from?”

Dean cringed. Castiel looked ridiculously out of place at the dock, where the working class and lower loaded and unloaded what wasn't meant for the rich and powerful to witness. His perfectly pressed suit and coat with floofy ascot stood out brazenly, the dulled browns and burgandys of the ragged shipmen wandering through port suddenly looking far more rumpled in his presence. But of course, being a Synthetic, he didn't even seem to notice, or at least he wasn't letting it show. Dean knew this was going to happen, but had somehow been convinced otherwise.

No, not somehow, he knew exactly how.

“I can assure you, Mr. Singer, that I am here of my own volition. I am currently in a consensual contract of association with Mr. Winchester as a companion, in order to further the pursuit, and reclamation, of his missing brother.”

Dean grimaced at the choice of words with a slight shake of his head and a sigh, swallowing down the nausea that was fighting for dominance with his air that suddenly had nothing to do with the view. There was a moment of awkward silence where Dean could practically feel the cogs turning in the old pirate's head. Bobby took a slow breath before speaking lowly.

“Dean Winchester, did you bring a _philanderer_ aboard my ship with you?” Bobby crossed his arms over his chest, looking for all the world like he was ready to kick Dean's sorry ass out of port.

“No! He's not- I wouldn't- christ, Bobby, the hell you take me for?”

“You sleepin with 'im?”

Dean sputtered, somehow losing the ability to create any semblance of words out of his face with any kind of believable use. Thankfully, Castiel didn't appear all that offended. If anything, there was faint amusement at the declaration, and wasn't that just a belly full of laughs.

“I am no paramour. We are partners.” Castiel stated mildly, like that cleared anything up at all.

“Are you now.” Bobby sniffed, scrubbing a hand across his mustache before pulling his fingers down the coarse whiskers of his chin. “Well then, _partner_, this ain't no cruiseliner. The Roadhouse flies by the blood and sweat of her crew, so if you're ridin her, you gotta service her. You think a 'non-paramour' dandy such as yourself is up for that? Those look like some soft hands.”

Dean shook his head helplessly. The sudden memory of those pale hands spreading across the expanse of his chest and pulling the buttons loose of his undershirt were instantly fresh in his mind. What wonderful timing.

“If you are implying a work obligation for passage, then I believe I am up to any task you ask of me.”

“Sure. I can see those skills from here. Dean, a word, if you would?”

Bobby tilted his head to one side, the distrust somehow more deeply etched in his expression than when they'd started. Dean sighed as he took a step forward, glancing to Castiel long enough to catch that intelligent blue gaze in understanding enough to stay where he was. It was obvious that Bobby didn't know _what_ he was, and that was fine, it was probably better that way anyway. But the story that was gravitating heavily between them was a manipulation of truths that Dean wasn't sure he was capable of maintaining. Lying was easy, but Bobby knew him since childhood, and knew that Dean wouldn't have brought Castiel without good reason. The guy had literally restarted his heart only a mere day ago, how the hell was he supposed to gloss over that very important thing that was linking them?

Bullshit. That's how.

Out of earshot, or at least human earshot, Dean hushed his voice and leaned in towards the man who'd been trusted like a second father to him. Somehow more acutely aware of how many weapons were hidden throughout the old mechanic's clothing to be grabbed and used at any time should that trust be lost.

“Bobby, you gotta believe me man, I know what it looks like-”

“Well, I should hope so.”

“But it- it's not, okay? Cas, he- he did me a solid and I owe him my life. Seriously. I can't explain too much, but this isn't just about a debt.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“It's- it's complicated, but he's got resources that I need to- to find Sam, and without that I've got bubkis. I'm in a hot boiler with no water and no steam, and I won't get anywhere without his help. Savvy?”

The old airship pirate sighed, and it was a sound Dean was familiar with. He'd hit something soft, and it was yielding.

“This is on your head, kiddo, I ain't kiddin. He starts demandin special treatment or not pullin that measly amount of weight he's sportin, and you know what's gonna happen. Crew'll eat him alive, and I ain't gonna stand in the way. Savvy that?”

Dean nodded, grabbing onto it with the last of his luck and taking what he could get. He hoped he sounded as sure as he was going for, because it felt like his own hangups were going to cut through his throat at any moment and give everything away. “It's on me, I get it. My word is my bond, Bobby, you know I don't give that lightly.”

Bobby hummed, eyeballing him for a beat that made Dean feel equally exposed and deceiving. Like a naked liar. To family, of all people. The entire situation couldn't possibly get any worse, but the lingering ache in his chest quickly reminded him that it could, and would, unless Castiel was there. Everything sucked.

“Well then, if that's how you wanna play this, you may as well bring that shiny package aboard and unshine it. Maybe roll him in some rust for good measure, all that clean is makin me itch.”

Dean snorted, but his amusement was short lived when he glanced back to the perfectly coiffed TickTock standing dubiously between the passing stares of a few wandering crewmen. Bobby was right, he was too damn perfect for his own good, but it made Dean itch for completely different reasons. The smile wiped from his face as their gazes caught and he cleared his throat.

“K Cas, we're cleared to board.” Jolly enthusiasm that was one hundred percent full of shit, Dean slid his thumbs down his suspenders nervously at the returned acknowledgment.

Bobby barked a sound that could have been a laugh, or could have been disgust, it was hard to tell, before turning and marching back in the direction he'd come. 

“Come on then, ya idgit, may as well pull this train wreck into the station.”

*

The airship itself was just as beautiful as Dean remembered, but much bigger. As a child, he'd been amazed to the point of hero-worship, following at Bobby's heels as close as a shadow from port to stern the moment he'd been dumped aboard. Flying had never been fun, not really, but the ship itself was incredible and made for a great distraction for a kid terrified of heights. Sam had always been more interested in the science, of course, how lift would overcome drag and the names of the chemicals that burned brighter at its core than any kind of fire he'd ever seen. It was love at first sight for the both of them, but for completely different reasons.

Dean had taken apart his first combustible at the age of four, memorized it, analyzed and hashed out every piece and angle it could all possibly go before reconstruction. His dad had been pissed, up until he'd turned it on and the thing had whispered like the waves of the ocean in a cool breeze. Dean didn't have to steal things from his father after that, they were handed over gladly, sometimes from a few of pop's friends, and eventually into the business the family owned. A mechanic's life wasn't everything children dreamed of when the most tempting piece of technology was walking around daily with a dangerous 'do no touch' warning attached. Dean would have given anything to look inside a Synthetic at the time, but he'd been warned by multiple sources in multiple ways that it was something that just wasn't done, and he shouldn't even think about trying. The cost wasn't worth it.

By the time of the accident, however, John Winchester, and everyone else it seemed, was long gone. He and Sam had struggled for years, Dean supporting them as best as he could as a freelance mechanic without certification, but it was almost always never enough. Food was hard to come by, shelter even harder, leaving them to huddle together in the cranker more often than they could help it, and stealing if they got desperate enough.

They still helped people whenever they could, but hunting was outside of the law, superstitious nonsense few truly appreciated, and the means to support themselves even further from the norm. Sam was smarter than everyone, but the knowledge and skills he had weren't all that respected by more than his family. The means to support themselves was a constant anxiety, with a tipping point of Dean ending up on the wrong side of a surgical theater with no money, no help, and a visible expiration date.

After waking up with a TickTock heart, the wonders produced by Letters Industries become more of an obsession than ever, something that seemed to satisfy Sam more than it should with his older brother breaking such a taboo. He'd never picked apart a live one, choosing to break into dumpsters and shifty basements for retired parts, but Dean had more than thirty models memorized within a year.

There were literally hundreds in existence, thousands of variations, all with multifaceted shades of skill and personality, but in the guts and skeleton of every single one was something based off of only four very obvious, direct models. The original, four Synthetics, created by Montarey Villiford.

Dean had used what he'd learned to upgrade what he could of The Roadhouse, and Bobby had never once asked how he knew what he did. The mechanic was smart enough to recognize forbidden fruit when he saw it, but couldn't deny how useful it was, or his willingness to receive it. The old bird had flown longer than most commercial airship liners, rarely breaking down, and carrying a reputation of being unsinkable throughout the Seven Skies.

Up until it actually sank, that is. By a sky whale, of all things.

The beauty that Dean was gazing at now was similar to what he remembered, but bigger, flashier, and looking a lot more sturdy than the mismatched, hodgepodged spit and a prayer he'd once come to love. She was longer, for one, the deck expanded further on all sides with a few visible brass enclosures that were obviously hiding weaponry. It wasn't much acceptable to bring a weaponized airship through Paris, but what the Fuzz didn't know wouldn't hurt em, and the pirates of the skies would shift points of dock constantly to avoid them. Smooth glass covered all of the windows, a luxury that had been unthinkable years ago when the entire crew was layered beneath snow worthy babushkas just to avoid freezing to death at the top of the sky. It looked warm and welcoming now, with at least eight sleek, silver propellers positioned at all angles for maneuvering, and the hard burlap knit of three sails, rolled skillfully atop their masts.

Surprisingly, much of the tech that Dean himself had cobbled together from his knowledge of Synthetics was still there, and he wasn't sure if that was on purpose in the remake, or by accident.

Dean whistled as they approached.

“Damn, she is _smokin_ hot, this beauty. How in the hell did you afford this, old man?”

Bobby smirked back over his shoulder, ignoring the age jab this time. “Do you really wanna know? Cause those Brass Bitches have been on my ass for months now, and if they get their claws in you, it's sure as hell gonna come up.”

Dean shook his head quickly, sending up a silent prayer to whatever was listening that he could stay as far away from the military as he could for this rescue.

“You know I love the ladies, Bobby, but even I've got a line I won't cross.”

Bobby cleared his throat loudly, too loudly, chancing a glance over Dean's shoulder and he felt his cheeks redden. Castiel was matching him step for step, carrying the one suitcase that was actually Dean's (because he'd insisted, the asshole) and looking for all the world like he was someone's dutiful manservant.

Whatever comment had been invoked by that conversation, it thankfully died somewhere in the air as there was a loud smash and clang of metal vibrating the very ground beneath their feet. Dean wobbled, the unsteady ground taking him off guard and re-inspiring his hatred of everything flying as the sight of a metal studded plank was suddenly locked down between the ship and the dock.

“Hey-oo Winchester!” A voice called out as Dean's vision cleared to take in the vision of a gorgeous young blonde leaning over the side of the ship, seemingly uncaring of the sharp drop beneath her.

“What the- Jo?” Dean startled, pulling a double take and soaking in the woman before him that he distinctly recalled being a girl the last time he'd seen her. “Who the hell let you above deck, you fetus? What are you, twelve now?”

Jo laughed, beautiful and melodic with her long soft curls shifting messily in a strong gust from below. Unphased, she brushed it back and smirked at the obvious attention, reveling in the discomfort she'd caused.

“I'm old enough to run through your dreams, you corpse! Hey pop? I think this one's turned, you might want to set it loose so it can bloat back to sea.” She crossed her arms over her (much bigger than he remembered) chest, boots laced up to her thighs and a deep brown, leather jumpsuit covering the rest. A dark corset was laced tightly around her waist, sporting an impressive belt filled with heavy pockets.

Dean was about to scathingly reply when Jo's gaze moved, and the shift in her expression was so ridiculous that he almost laughed aloud. Castiel couldn't have stood out more if he was squawking and spitting fire.

“Whoa- shit man. You got a correctional officer? The hell did you do?” Jo narrowed her gaze skeptically, glancing at Bobby for reference but finding nothing. Dean rolled his eyes.

“He's not- c'mon guys, it's like you were all born in barns. Ain't you never dressed up pretty for fun? Or hell, for a job? You can't tell me you've never thrown on a bustle or feathered derby to blend in.”

Jo shook her head slowly, reaching her hands out to accept the small bit of cargo Bobby handed her from the edge. Dean felt sicker the closer he came, seeing the distant walls expanding out on both sides now with nothing to block the view. It was actually breathtaking, but a harsh reality for what was to come.

“Sure Dean-o, although, I think you've got me beat on dress ownin.”

“That was the _one_ time-”

“And even then, are you seriously tryin to tell me that he's in disguise? Here? With _you_? As what? You inhale some of Sam's experiments lately?”

Unfortunately, she had a point. Dean really should have thought to redress Castiel before they'd reached Saint Georges, and at _that_ lovely thought, a warm streak of red crossed his cheeks with a scowl.

“He- I don't-” He floundered, the stress of the view getting to be too much.

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, Miss.” Castiel spoke up defiantly behind him, and wasn't that a shot straight to the dick.

Jo's eyebrows raised, mouthing the word 'miss' to Dean with fake impressiveness. This was a such a disaster.

“And as such, we have been short on time and sufficient supplies in our pursuit of Sam Winchester's safety and whereabouts. I was unable to obtain my usual clothing, I hope this finery is not too distracting for you.”

Suddenly it was Jo's turn to blush, and wasn't that the best feeling in the world. Dean smirked, forcing it back down as quick as it came and swallowing roughly.

“Seriously, kid, it's like you ain't never seen a sharp dressed man before. Try getting your ass off the ship once and awhile and live a little.”

“Like you're out there livin the excitin life standin behind a counter, eh Dean Winchester?”

Dean felt the muscles in his abdomen clench involuntarily, turning to see Bobby disappear up the plank behind the dark silhouette of a woman standing in his place. He sucked in a breath through his nose the same time he sucked in his gut, nodding in her direction guiltily as he made a sad attempt to pull himself together.

“Ellen! Long time no see- although I guess I should be calling you Captain Ellen now?”

The woman snorted, her voice as whiskey thick as the holsters around her thighs. She was in a jumpsuit similar to her daughter's, but it was covered in pockets with various tools chained and linked throughout. Her brown hair was pulled into a tight braid beneath a leather cap with flight goggles settled into the grooves, as tight and intimidating as her gaze.

“Captain Harvelle sounds a bit better, wouldn't you say? And you'll be calling me that until you've earned otherwise, we understood?”

“Yes ma'am.” Dean replied instantly, sparing a glance at Jo's amused smirk and regretting it instantly.

“That goes for you too, Professor.”

They stood at the plank that led to The Roadhouse, Ellen bracketing her ship like a sentry that could cut them down at the slightest wrong move. And by the sight of the sword bound on one hip, she more than likely could. Dean could only hope that Castiel was as prepared for this as he'd said he was. He was programmed as a companion, wasn't he? How the hell did Dean ever think this was going to work?

His face as expressionless as ever, Castiel simply nodded his compliance, earning an appreciative glance from Ellen by wisely choosing to keep his thoughts to himself. Something that wasn't one of Dean's many skills.

“Permission to come aboard, Cap'n?” Dean gave his best grin, faltering slightly at Ellen's sudden speculative look that was trying to dig through the fake bravado and figure him out on sight. He could swear the whole damn family could see right through him.

“Shut the hell up and get up here.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Dean wobbled on unsteady legs, but somehow made his way across the thin metal slab that was keeping him from certain death in order to get to sturdier ground. It was a bit of a relief, stepping onto The Roadhouse again after he'd heard of her demise, and Dean could feel his fingers itching to get a look at her new, inner bits.

The berth held, but he could already feel the slight swaying as she hovered, bringing back the queasiness quicker than Dean was expecting and worse than he remembered when he was younger. Sam would say his equilibrium had changed since the accident, but Sam wasn't there.

“You're gonna need to find those air legs, Dean, and be quick about it.” Ellen snapped, watching Dean's wobble and looking completely unimpressed. (Castiel walked like he always did, the bastard.) “Every single crew member on this ship has earned their place, so as new _volunteers_, you fall at the very bottom of the food chain. You take orders from anyone, unless I say otherwise, we clear?”

“Crystal.” Dean grumbled, although his irritation wasn't directed at any of the policies he was already familiar with aboard that particular ship.

“Marvelous. Let's introduce you to the crew then, and by introduce, I mean tell you who's here somewhere, cause I don't do tours. I'm gonna go ahead and assume you're good with sharing space with your fancy friend here, right? Cause space is a coveted luxury on an airship.”

Dean nodded after only a slight hesitation, glancing quickly at Castiel to try and gauge his thoughts but finding nothing reciprocated. Having synthetic control over your own face must be nice.

“Alright then, most everyone's the same as you remember, but for the benefit of...?”

There was a tense beat of silence, Ellen gazing past Dean for a moment of implication before he finally got it.

“Oh, this is-”

“Castiel.”

“Right. For Castiel's benefit then, I'll run down the shortlist. You met the husband and the daughter, First Mate and cook.”

“Jo still cooking? Shit, I guess I'll die.”

“Shut your trap, Winchester. We've still got Garth on navigation, and Rufus as master at arms, but they're picking up the last of our cargo before this ship is ready to sail.”

Ellen walked backwards, watching them with all of the confidence of someone that knew their environment down to the decimal points. Her boots clacked on the worn wood, occasionally dinging on the head of a copper metal bolt as she moved on.

“Other than that, the new faces you'll see are Charlie, a few new TickTock's here and there, and unfortunately, whether you like it or not, you're gonna run into Loki.”

Dean stopped before he reached the other end of the deck, keeping a wary eye on the steep cliff miles in the distance that framed the opposite side of Blanche Station. It was one of the bigger canyons in France, stretching to a staggering twenty mile radius in the center of what was otherwise a bustling and busy city. There were rumors that the giant hole in the ground wasn't natural, that something huge and deadly had once exploded there and blasted everything to kingdom come, leaving nothing but a crater and rubble in it's place. Seeing it from a distance basically confirmed that with it's symmetry, but no one was really alive anymore that could say what war Paris could have been blasted in, or how. There was evidence of ancient architecture melted into the cliffs themselves, but it had long passed the point of forbidden language and sat there unmarked and unrecognizable ever since.

Pinching his eyes closed, Dean shook his head before steadying himself. Again.

“Loki? Who the hell is-”

“G.B. Lokeyson! At no one's service!”

Ropes suddenly seemed to fall from nowhere, startling Dean enough that he backed right into Castiel. A sharp swishing sound announced the arrival of something sliding swiftly down a rope and landing with a dull thunk upon the deck, clattering noisily around everything else. Dean felt Castiel's hands steady him from behind, solid weight bracketing before gently pushing him forward and back to his balance. It was so quick and so sudden, no one seemed to see it happen, and a glance over Dean's shoulder was nothing more than an emotionless mask of indifference.

Shaking off the tingling feeling traveling up his spine, Dean turned his attention back to the noise. A man was standing before him, nearly a head shorter but somehow bigger than he outta be. Everything about him oozed with confidence, and from the smudges and burns across his trousers, it was easy to see that he worked the parts of the airship that kept it running. Work goggles had left the smudgy outline of circles surrounding his bright, hazel eyes, and were hanging loose around the man's neck, bracketed by a single suspender while the other hung loose in a hoop down his side. His cheap, buttoned shirt looked too big, and was torn in multiple places, but he really didn't look like he cared.

Unsure how to proceed, Dean snuck a glance at Ellen to see rolled eyes and a harried expression, although he was grateful to finally have that famous glare focused elsewhere, it was unclear as to why.

With a heavy sigh, the captain gestured to the short man like she was pointing out a bloody crime scene that no one in their right mind wanted to look at.

“Dean Winchester, Castiel, this is Loki. Now do yourselves a favor and forget he's here. Lord knows I try to.”

Loki put a mocking hand on his chest, his expression dripping with false offense as he dragged the fingers of his other hand back through the greasy, brown mop of hair past his enormous forehead.

“Woman, you _wound_ me.”

“No I don't. I've tried.”

“Yeah, you don't. Hey, we got some fresh meat! Someone let the cook know so I might actually be able to stomach the food on this boat.” Loki smirked, eyebrows raised towards Jo as she helped to roll a large keg aboard while simultaneously glaring and flipping him off. Popular guy.

Ellen rubbed a weary hand across her brow, a motion that looked far too practiced. “Loki's our mechanic. Outside of Bobby, he keeps this hunk of metal flying as smooth as she does. And I'd have kicked this pain in the ass into the ocean by now if it wasn't for the fact that he rebuilt The Roadhouse back up from scraps, for little to no fee.”

Dean felt his eyes widen, turning to gaze at the man in a completely new light. “Seriously?”

“Ugh, yes. If he'd take payment I could at least justify getting rid of him, but the asshole doesn't seem to like gold _or_ have anywhere better to be.”

“You remade this entire thing? By hand? No crew?”

Loki's narcissistic smirk only seemed to grow, and Ellen tossed her hands up at the look. “Oh great, here we go. You fed the scraps, you keep the stray. I'm not dealing with his bullshit so close to tempting, tossable land. Your room is cabin four, whenever you get sick of listening to _this_. Shouldn't take long.” And with that scathing approval, the captain had rotated on her heel and stepped away to help with the last of the cargo. The mechanic smirked as he watched her go.

“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave!”

“Eyes off the merchandise, jackass.”

Loki snickered, turning back to Dean with a satisfied grin.

“She's actually in love with me. We've had wild, filthy donkey sex on basically every smooth surface of this beauty here. Actually, every rough one too, I'm an equal opportunity pleasure inducer; y'know, flexible. You'd be amazed at what does and does not vibrate when the engines of my sweet girl are on full. See how glossy the deck is? That sure ain't lacker.” Loki waggled his eyebrows and Dean's initial impression plummeted over the edge of the ship and into the canyon.

“Wow. That is disgusting.”

Loki spread his hands like he was presenting himself. “Don't knock it til you try it, bucko.” He winked and Dean felt himself squirm uncomfortably. There was a tense moment where he could practically feel Castiel's steely gaze from behind him, turning curiously to catch the TickTock's normal, bland expression before looking back to Loki and seeing their eye lines hold. It didn't last much longer than a few seconds, but it made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end.

“Yeah okay. So you rebuilt The Roadhouse?”

Loki took the bait quickly, his strangely penetrating gaze disappearing like it had never been there. “Yup, this all came outta me, every meter.”

“But half of it still looks like it used to.” Dean noted, glancing around at the familiar. A lot had been his own designs, and they were not only still there, but had been integrated into the rest of the ship seamlessly. He'd never been one for artistry, relying more on function than visual aesthetic, but the way that the airship now weaved its old and new technology together? It was a damn piece of art.

“Well sure, it didn't hit that whale and burst into flames, which was hilarious by the way, there was a lot left over. It was just in metric tons of really useless, shitty little pieces. Bit of spit and some special Loki sauce, and I got her back together, whisperin my name orgasmically into the clouds as she soars on by.”

Dean full body shuddered, he couldn't take much more. “Wow, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, we ain't got the time to unpack that sack of cats. You two get your cute little tushes back up here after you dump your shit. I got work needs done.” He winked again, over dramatically like he was imparting them with some kind of gift, before yanking on one of the ropes that retracted and pulled him swiftly back up toward the mast.

Two heads followed his progress before he disappeared like a monkey around the second sail.

“That is a weird, gross little guy.” Dean mumbled, and heard Castiel hum in agreement.

They turned back towards the door to the lower deck, and Dean pulled it open and held it out for Castiel to walk through. For a moment, the TickTock's gaze had lingered, following Loki's trail as if he could still see where the creeper had gone, but Dean couldn't see anything.

“Hey. You alright?”

Castiel shrugged it off and turned towards him, an almost human gesture that was slightly off putting before he stepped forward into Dean's space.

“Of course.” He replied, before stepping past and in, like everything that was happening around him was completely normal. Dean sighed, moving to follow, and just as he got the door closed behind him, he was abruptly shoved sideways.

“Oof! Whoa, hey, what in the-” Dean grumbled, twisting just in time to catch the flailing arms of a redhead who'd unceremoniously tripped right into him, dropping a large stack of books that scattered across the floor.

“Noooo goddammit! I just alphabetized those!” She floundered, reaching down as if the power of her dismay might magically place them back into her empty hands. Dean sagged at the weight and readjusted his grip, wondering if she realized she was still leaning on him before she suddenly yanked herself backwards with a gasp, putting space between them.

“Stranger danger!” The woman shrieked and Dean froze, splaying his hands out to show he was unarmed in some bizarre moment of feeling like he'd been called out.

“Gah, no, I'm not- I'm new to- but not really new, just- okay, hang on, I can do this again-”

“Dean?”

The horrible word vomit that had been stuttering out of Dean's face thankfully ground to a halt as the ginger suddenly said his name, and he finally made eye contact. She was beautiful, small, her short, wavy red locks free floating around her head like a halo as she cocked her head to the side in open recognition. Dean blinked, then blinked again.

“Mercy?”

Castiel was suddenly beside him, completely out of nowhere, holding the stack of books in his arms like he'd caught them before they'd actually scattered across the decking. “Mercy Stormside.” He confirmed, nodding to her, and her eyes widened impossibly further.

“Holy shit. Castiel? You two- how do you- and what are you doing- and why is- oh. Thank you. You stacked those really damn fast.” A large grin suddenly split across her face as she looked back and forth between the two of them, like all of her questions had been answered in her head. “Yes, it's me! But not me. Sort of me? I go by Charlie now, FYI. That fun little adventure-quest I took with the Winchester bros was not the kind of safe and wholesome expedition where you could walk away unscathed. My reputation took more of a beating than my face, at least.”

Dean caught up with himself, grinning back at her with the infectious smile he remembered. “Well damn, Mer- Charlie, what a small fuckin horizon. I didn't think I'd ever run into you again after...well, after _that_.”

Charlie nodded emphatically, looking from him to Castiel then back again.

“I mean, there are worse things. Like what was coming for that asshole, Dick Roman, may he writhe in pieces, but what is the scoop here? Fill me in, Winchester. How do you and Castiel know each other? A hunter and a Synthetic partnering up, how cliché! Wandering the world? Traveling the skies? Finding true love?”

Dean choked. “What?!”

“I dunno, it all just kinda flowed well. Where'd you crazy kids meet?”

Before Dean could answer, Castiel cleared his throat, setting the books on a nearby chair with a heavy clunk like it weighed practically nothing. “There are few aboard this vessel who are aware of who and what I am, Charlie. We intend to keep it that way, for as long as possible. Can I ask for your discretion?”

Charlie cocked an eyebrow, glancing warily at Dean before she nodded. “Yeah alright, sure. I'll keep your strange, unimportant secrets. Why?”

Castiel tilted his head just slightly and squinted, that strange tic he did whenever he was thinking, that Dean couldn't help but be drawn towards.

“For your safety, and your own current re-identification efforts. I cannot stress the importance of anonymity more than during our search for Sam.”

“Whoa, back that thing up, what happened to Sam?!”

Finally feeling a place he could jump in, Dean rebooted his brain and forced it to send words out through his mouth. “Snatchers.” He spat, and Charlie's eyes immediately darkened.

“So...they got to your city too. I just barely made it out of mine. Didn't think I'd see them again in my lifetime. You have any idea who they're working for this time?”

“We have a few ideas, but nothing solid. Singer's crew are old friends of the family, and we needed a no-questions asked ride, but we don't want to mix anyone up in this tar pit that can get out before it burns.”

Charlie nodded, her fierce expression reminding him of the fiery Storm Chaser he'd met and befriended only a year ago. “If I was still collecting lightning, you can bet they'd have caught my ass by now. I hear that the skies have been cleared of anyone associating with the STEM's, so now they've moved to the land, and it's all being covered up so fast that no one knows who's doing it.”

“STEM's?” Castiel asked, glancing between them. Dean nodded, pulling up four fingers.

“Science, technology, engineering and mathematics. Everything that Letter Industries has outlawed outside of their own, iron walls, and basically confirming your theory that I probably should have been nabbed too. But if they're going after uncertifieds, how are they getting their intel?”

Charlie shrugged. “No clue, but easy to deduce that our names are on some list somewhere, just waitin to be snatched. They're good too, no targets have really been left behind, you and I are probably two of very few. Oh that rhymed so well, this is way more intriguing than I first imagined, I thought maybe my old, bad luck was just catching back up to me.”

Dean sighed, shifting his stance as he felt an obvious dip in weight when the airship moved slightly beneath his feet. He gulped a heavy lungful of air and fought back the nausea.

“Whoa there, space cadet. I think I see some green in those gills.”

“Ugh, shut up, you know how I feel about flying.”

Charlie's laughter was playful as she reached forward and whacked a fist into Dean's arm. “You're hilarious, you know that? I met you at ten thousand feet the first time, and now I run into your sorry, sick ass on an airship? That is some thick, melodramatic martyrdom you're sporting, you masochist. Ah, sweet alliteration!”

Dean rubbed his arm and rolled his eyes, glancing to Castiel with a look that said he could jump in at anytime, but was left with nothing but the smooth features of an emotionless face. No help whatsoever.

“Seriously though, how did this-” She raised her hands with two fingers pointing at them, pulling them together and apart over and over again. “happen? Last I saw you, Castiel, I was handing over some seriously punchy, high voltage-”

“The Winchesters assisted me with an exorcism.” Castiel interrupted, and that was a first. Dean flicked a curious glance between them at the cut off, but didn't comment. “My associate and good friend, Anna, had been possessed, and I was unwilling to see her disassembled when we received word that no help would be coming.”

“Oh no, Anna! Is she alright? She was so adorable and sweet and adorable.”

“She is much improved, with little memory of the incident. Her mental capacity has diminished under the strain, but with time I believe system upgrades will bring her back to herself.”

Charlie nodded sympathetically, and Dean couldn't help but be charmed by the way they interacted. Charlie knew already that Castiel was a TickTock, but she neither spoke down to or around him, as most people did. He was still lingering on a few of his hangups, trying to piece apart the strange feelings that the automaton had ignited within him, and was embarrassed at how relieving it was to see others without discrimination.

Dean rubbed his knuckles in a slow arc across the hidden metal plate on his chest, beneath his clothing. Feeling the dips and bumps and scars in a familiar pattern. None of this meant a damn thing if he couldn't get Sam back.

“Listen, I can't wait to catch up with both you weirdos, but I gotta get those books shelved and locked before takeoff. Take advantage of 'just-aboard' privileges and nap or something, no one will drag you out yet if they think you're gonna hurl. Which you seriously look like you might. Bathroom is next to cabin eight, but fair warning, that's Loki's room, and I don't know what he does in there, but it smells awful most of the time. Hint hint, nudge nudge, barf. I'm in cabin five, so let's powwow before the sun sets, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure thing, kiddo. It's good to see you.” Dean grinned, reaching a hand out for a shake but getting an armful of ginger instead.

“Hug alert! And that applies for both Winchesters until I can get my hands on your moose of a brother. I owe you both my life, and you know what skills I have to offer. If I can help you find him, I will.”

“Thanks Charlie.” Dean sighed, leaning into her slight frame for a moment before carefully putting space between his chest and hers. He could easily excuse the abnormal lumps of his body while he was clothed, claiming full pockets, but once dress down came around, Dean just couldn't accept this kind of closeness. It was an ache of loneliness he was used to, but unwillingly.

*

Their room was small, as expected, with a single bed attached to the wall that folded down, a utility sink with a dirty mirror, and chair that was bolted to the floor in front of a fold down desk. The single window was mostly clear, and currently positioned away from the dock towards the misting cliffs across the canyon. Dean pointedly kept his gaze elsewhere.

He turned just as Castiel closed the solid, iron door behind them, rotating the wheel that locked it into place leaving them noticeably alone together in the small, quiet space. It wasn't overly warm, but Dean took in the look that Castiel was giving him and suddenly felt himself start to sweat. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry about- about all that. I had kind of a rough childhood and these were basically all I had for role models. Explains a lot about me, I'm sure.” He chuckled, suddenly nervous and distracted.

Castiel nodded, his head tilting slightly as his eyes raked from Dean's fidgeting hands up to his face, settling on his lips. Nah, not distracted at all.

“You have flight anxiety.” He stated simply, like it wasn't obvious by then.

“Yeah, I uh- sorry I didn't tell you, it wouldn't have made much of a difference cause we needed to fly no matter what but...uh- what are you doing?”

Castiel had removed his coat, tossing it onto the back of the bolted chair while Dean was speaking, then started to undo the buttons of his bleached white, ruffled shirt. The sky blue ascot fluttered to the floor with little regard for where it landed.

“I am in need of proper attire if we are to continue this journey more inconspicuously.” His voice was a rumble like an engine, deep and melodic and well oiled. “And you are in need of rest.”

Dean swallowed thickly, shaking his head with a slight glance toward the much hated view. “I don't see that happening anytime soon. The rest thing, that is, you can wear whatever you can find from- from my stuff, if you want, and- and I-” He didn't realize he'd taken a few steps backward to give the Synthetic more room until his shoulders hit the bulkhead. Castiel had stepped forward, but far more gracefully, finishing the buttons of his shirt but leaving it to billow around his pale chest as he leaned in.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked quietly, feeling the strength of his voice dwindle as he watched Castiel's attentive fingers reach up to the cheap buttons of Dean's collar.

“Montarey disliked flying a great deal.” He said unexpectedly, and Dean's heated gaze moved from the intricate tattoo, up the pale, long line of bared neck and into crystal blue eyes. “Something else you seem to have in common. As his companion, I was well versed in assisting him acclimate to restrictive environments.”

It took Dean a moment for the words to come together in his head, blood pooling south and completely unhelpful in the brain to mouth process.

“Wait, you- you what?”

Castiel gently slid his hands across Dean's chest, slipping beneath the suspenders and guiding them in opposite directions off his shoulders, leaving tingling trails down Dean's arms wherever those deft fingers landed. He sucked in a breath when Castiel moved back to the remaining buttons, touching confidently around the scarred flesh beneath that few others had ever even laid eyes on.

“I'm going to help you relax, Dean.” Castiel practically purred into his ear, their chests nearly touching as he leaned forward and slid his course, slightly stubbled cheek into Dean's jaw. There was no logical reason for a TickTock to have a five o'clock shadow. The imperfections in his design were perfect and incredible.

“You don't- wait. Cas, you- _oh_, you don't have to do that...”

Why he was putting up any kind of argument was completely beyond capable thought, but it had fought its way out anyway. Dean silently cursed his own sense of morality as he nearly shook out of his skin with how starved he was for touch. Castiel didn't seem to be deterred, _thank fuck_.

“You seem to be under the impression that my insistence on accompanying you has placed me in a position of servitude. This is incorrect. Let me reassure you, Dean Winchester, I do not belong to you, nor will I do any service for you, unwillingly.”

Dean's eyes widened as Castiel suddenly dragged a hand south of his belt, long, mechanical fingers cupping and dragging slowly along the seam of his trousers. He groaned, letting his head fall forward onto the TickTock's shoulder as his hands moved up to brace himself on Castiel's arms.

“I'm not- not expecting- _jesus_-”

“I am aware. If you would like for me to cease, please say so-”

Dean shook his head without lifting it. “No, nope.”

“Otherwise, as I said previously, I am going to help you relax.”

“K then.”

At Dean's simple consent, Castiel's other hand moved swiftly to Dean's belt, unhooking the multiple latches with ridiculous ease before he flicked the buttons of his trousers in a single pull. Dean gasped, loudly, the sudden exposure more than he was used to with another person, and all of his senses suddenly cranked up to eleven. The few small moments they'd had in Villiford's weird, forgotten bedroom seemed like such a brief lifetime ago, that Dean found himself embarrassingly unprepared.

Hoping that Castiel wouldn't notice his hesitance, and trying to knock his brain back into gear, Dean slid his hands down the smooth fabric of the TickTock's arms, marveling at the feeling and texture and kinetic warmth that was radiating from him. Knowing he wasn't human, wasn't muscle and blood and bone, Dean's brain was actually feeding him everything that he _was_ instead.

The intricate shapes of the multiple, pneumatic muscles of Castiel's arms as they inflated and deflated silently beneath every motion. The cylinders, the bellows, the proprioceptive sensors and engines, so small and intricate in design for fluid function. The polyurethane skin covering every inch, soft to the touch but thicker and more durable than fragile skin ever would be. Castiel's fingers contained thousands of individual tactel sensors, sending him constant feedback on every single bump and groove and dip of all he touched, which at the moment, was Dean's incredibly aroused dick. The thought of such an incredibly advanced machine, using it's immense capacity for processing to map out what sensations excited him, was nearly enough to send him over the edge.

“You're taking me apart, I can feel it.” Castiel said, lips connecting on the side of Dean's neck and sliding down with the hint of teeth.

Dean felt himself seize up in defense, the reaction involuntary whenever it was implied that he had any kind of knowledge of what lay beneath the forbidden mysteries of a TickTock. Castiel made a noise of dissent, pressing into him further to pull out a startled gasp and closing the fingers of one hand around the base of Dean's cock.

“No, don't stop.”

At the encouragement, flashes of dynamics, piezoelectricity, flexibility, and pneumatic actuators flickered like lightning at the words, granted permission to think freely of what he knew, and it all came out in a rush of intuitive knowledge. Castiel released him, like he could somehow feel it flowing, and Dean whimpered at the loss as those sensitive hands moved up to his neck, cradling and urging him to put the slightest bit of space between them before sliding agile fingers down the slopes of his arms. The Synthetic's lips were mapping a constellation on his skin.

It came as a sudden surprise when his hands were redirected. Dean looked to see Castiel's fingers on his wrists in front of him, having already undone his trousers and freed his quickly hardening cock. Confused, green eyes moved to blue, but Castiel pulled both of Dean's hands to his lips in a surprisingly tender moment that made him blush more than the opening of his buttons had.

“Do you have any idea how many exteroceptive sensors there are, concentrated in my mouth and throat?”

Thick, slightly chapped lips dragged across the rough skin of Dean's knuckles, a few centimeters from his face with one hundred percent eye contact that Dean could feel the severity of down to his knees. He shuddered, hips aching to press forward into anything, but restraining himself as much as possible as he waited for wherever it was that Castiel was leading.

A tongue flicked out, pink and perfect and completely synthetic, and Dean couldn't help the groan that rumbled up his throat. He'd always had a thing for mechanics, it shouldn't have come as so much of a surprise that something completely artificial would be such a goddamn turn on.

“Cas.” The nickname slipped out, but Dean was flat-lining on pretty much everything else. Thankfully, Castiel wasn't asking for him to elaborate.

The TickTock moved Dean's hands upwards the same time that he went down, lowering to his knees and redirecting the rough fingers to grip into the soft, black hair on his head. Castiel's own hands went straight to Dean's hips, and with the belt and buttons already released, his trousers slid down with him.

Dean cursed colorfully, his head falling back with a thunk as realization kicked in at what exactly was happening. It had been so long, longer than he could remember, since someone had touched him like this. Castiel had unbuttoned Dean's shirt first, making him comfortable since he already knew what was beneath. It wasn't like he needed to show his bare chest to enjoy something as simple as a blowjob. But then, it _wasn't_ simple anymore. Hadn't been for years.

Dean couldn't predict what a partner would or would not want from him, nor if they'd be offended if he refused to be touched or revealed in any way shape or form from the waist to the neck. It had just seemed...easier...to avoid it all entirely. Lonelier, and far more frustrating, but easier.

Castiel _knew_. And not only that, he didn't care, or at least, he didn't seem to, beyond possessing the skeleton key that would help to keep Dean alive. It didn't bother him like it would a human partner, nor did Dean have the need to keep up the facade for safety reasons. It made him feel floaty and lightheaded.

At the first swipe of Castiel's tongue across the leaking, plum head of his cock, Dean jerked his hips. He couldn't help it, he was as completely out of practice as a horny teenager in the back of a horsedrawn. A flush traveled up the heat of his chest with the second swipe, but Castiel had moved his hands to Dean's hips to keep him solidly in place. Strong thumbs traced across the sharp lines of his hipbones and Dean felt his fingers clench into Castiel's hair. 

That textured tongue lathed across the base of his arousal before he was suddenly completely engulfed, shocking Dean completely with the heat and pressure and gyroscopic vibration of the TickTock's throat. What was it he'd said? _Exteroceptive sensors?_ There had to be thousands of them, arrays of tactels providing quantums of data for torque and force on what had already been touched and what was preparing to be. Castiel was sensitive enough to feel and process at least ten times more, and faster, than what a human did, not because it gave Dean pleasure, but so that _Castiel could enjoy it_. It was incredible and alien and intoxicating, and Dean couldn't stop himself from trying to thrust forward, despite the steel boned hands keeping him where he was as Castiel bobbed forward and back for a few delicious moments of friction.

There was a thrilling moment of wondering just how many exteroceptive sensors were concentrated around the Synthetic's own genitals. How sensitive would his dick be? What was it even made of? Could he control how hard or soft it became, or was it sensitive to arousal like a human being? What about inside-

Castiel slid the thumb of one hand down beneath the crease of Dean's balls and pressed gently upwards, demanding his wandering attention instantly from mentally fucking the TickTock.

“Cas, fuck.” Dean murmured, a hand moving from the thick black locks up to his own face as he dragged a sweaty, clothed forearm across his eyes. Everything was over sensitized, and Castiel seemed to have direct control of every pressure sensitive point in his tongue, switching it up as he moved so that the heat rotated circularly around his cock. Dean tried not to think of it as similar to fucking a vacuum hose, but Cas didn't seem to have the need to breathe, and that terrible idea made this singular moment so much more hallucinatory.

Castiel hummed, somehow in multiple places, and Dean cursed again, his eyes clenching shut before he forced himself to see. He had to, it was just too good and too much not to. Dean didn't know how much longer he'd have this gift, so he was damn well going to appreciate it while he could, so he glanced down.

At the sudden eye contact, he watched as Castiel's pupil's dilated, like he'd been waiting for Dean to just _look_ at him before turning on the aroused switch, and fuck, that look was everything. He went from blank to wrecked in less than a second, and Dean could barely keep up, Castiel's hand moving from his hip to the slippery, spit shine of his cock and circling around the base like he was a goddamn master at it. Dean sunk impossibly deeper into that rotator induced heat, thrusting forward with the slightest bit of allowance he'd been granted and feeling the hollowed out cheeks before he even saw them. Cas breathed out a gust through his nose into the short strings of dark hair that went straight to Dean's spine and he felt himself clench up involuntarily.

“Fuck, Cas, jesus, I can't- I'm gonna-”

Fire was licking through his veins and he couldn't tell if it was his own body or the meticulously, temperature controlled power of the beautiful Synthetic sucking him down. Encouraged by the words, and not seeming to be bothered in the slightest at how quickly he'd gotten there, Castiel slid Dean's arousal even deeper into his throat where his hand had been, swallowing and tightening and holding himself there with a greedy insistence that wasn't giving a single fuck about how close the man was.

Dean cried out, jackknifing his hips forward with another whack of his head back into the bulkhead, simultaneously pounding a fist into the metal beside him. It was noisy, despite the blood thundering in his ears, with obscene slurping noises coming from the TickTock as Dean climaxed. His heart was beating faster than it should be, making an overtaxed, clicking noise in protest, but Dean couldn't find it in him to care. If this was how that fancy, famous clockwork heart finally stopped, he'd brag about it in Hell. 

Dean breathed out heavily, squirming as Castiel continued to touch and lick past the point of over sensitized before he was finally released, bonelessly, to the quiet of the room.

Castiel switched from predatory back to his usual self in an instant, gentle hands moving to pull the fabric of Dean's forgotten trousers up from his knees back over the slide of his hips. He was tucked neatly back into place, the final signs of anything promiscuous happening being Dean's completely wrecked face and exhausted body as he nearly slid himself to the floor.

“Goddamn.” Dean breathed out, shakily, scrubbing a hand over his eyes in astonishment. “Y'know, I literally just told Bobby that this wasn't what you were here for.”

Castiel stood to his feet fluidly, leaning forward to brush his lips across Dean's forehead in what felt like a tender gesture that Dean was wholly unprepared for.

“I'm aware.” Castiel said softly, the deep tenor of his voice vibrating against Dean's ear and he felt his eyes slide shut as Castiel's fingers did up the buttons of his trousers. “You weren't lying. This isn't what I'm here for.”

Dean couldn't help it at that point, he turned his head until he felt his nose brush against the TickTock's before slotting their lips together, a short breathed moan rumbling up his throat at the contact. He could just barely taste himself, and Cas matched him move for move, but didn't deepen, keeping it sweet and unburdened and relaxed. Dean didn't even realize how much he was swaying until he was literally caught, Castiel's hands keeping him from face planting into the sink.

The whole situation was ridiculous, he barely even knew the guy. Machine.  
Dean was really damn tired.

“You should rest.” Castiel stated, reaching towards the wall without looking and unhooking the single bed to let it swing down and fill most of the tiny room. Dean turned to look blearily at it, missing frame rates like a zoetrope with a few pictures punched out.

“What about...?” He already knew the answer to what he was asking, but Dean felt obligated to say most of it aloud anyway, glancing to the TickTock in bewilderment that this was his life now.

“I don't need sleep, and I won't have to recharge for a much longer period of time than this.” The grip on Dean's arms increased to press him towards the bed and Dean didn't fight it, turning to curl into the flat cushion without protest.

“What will you do?” He murmured, struggling to keep his eyes open and marveling in disbelief as he felt Castiel's fingers thread gently through his hair. 

“I'll watch over you.”

Dean was asleep before he heard him.

*

Castiel turned the wheel release on the door to the lower deck and stepped out into the fading sunlight of Paris.

The cliffs of Saint Georges would go dark long before the sun set, rising stiffly, high above the horizon line in an unnatural pattern that had been forced into formation by a horrific amount of force. Over time, a lot of it had crumbled, by weather or by gravity, returning to where it had once lay beneath a vast cityscape of streets and buildings, built up over centuries of human creation. A marvel of technology, existence, and art.

Now it was a giant, empty crater, devoid of growth. Destroyed by the very creatures that had painstakingly built it. It would be centuries still, before the cavern floor would be clear of its deadly radiation.

Castiel stepped forward across the deck of The Roadhouse, finishing the closures of the buttons on the cheaply made overshirt he'd found in Dean's case. The fabric was worn and faded, torn and restitched in multiple places, probably handed down through quite a few warm bodies before it had become Dean's. Castiel didn't mind, everything had a history, but the present was more important. The shirt was covered in Dean's scent and no one else's.

He paused briefly at the smallest of the three masts as a figure approached, and Castiel recognized it almost immediately as another Synthetic, carrying a load of cargo towards the rear of the airship. It was a simple model, modified externally with paint, as most human's did in the only allowance they were granted in changing the look of their machines. One of the factory class that didn't need a remote, with auditory sensors but no vocalizations, a K-2Y5. He knew all of them, had their manuals and classifications at his disposal within his memory, but it wasn't often that he saw them personally.

Castiel stared for longer than was necessary, watching it as it moved clunkily, barely able to keep its balance with a low grade tilt sensor and hardly any form of accelerometer to account for speed or agility. There was no grace to it, only work; it was nothing but a loud, barely functional tool that could not speak, dissent or do much more than 'if, than, else' decisions. The guts of a machine that was the basic make up of what he, himself was.

“Been awhile, hasn't it?”

Castiel glanced upwards at the voice, the last of the sunlight breaching into the canyon and striping across the top few feet of the main mast. Loki was sitting up there, sprawled on the circular piece of wood like it was a settee as he fiddled with a pile of ropes draping over his lap. Castiel sighed in resignation, suddenly unsure, but certain of the inevitable as he calculated the innumerable possible outcomes of this decision.

Very little could be predicted here.

He reached upwards, pulling at the ropes and lifting himself up with an agility that didn't match the heaviness of his frame. There were slight footholds every few feet of the thick, textured beam, but Cas only had need for about every other before he reached the second long bar from the top. A secondary beam that helped to support the mainsail when it was dropped and roped into use. Castiel crouched there before gazing upwards again, noting that the smaller man hadn't moved at all from his precarious perch.

“Awhile since what?” He asked, although it was a mainly rhetorical.

Loki huffed, corroborating Castiel's hypothesis, but not quite confirming.

“Since you've been around that kinda garbage? Seen a Synthetic as impressive as a toaster? Take your fuckin pick. I saw how you looked at it. Pretty depressing, huh?”

Castiel continued to climb upwards until he reached the highest part of the mast, settling at a balanced crouch a few feet from the mechanic and watching as his fingers moved agilely through the yards of rope. He was tying knots. Each one was near perfectly spaced, perfectly sized, and tied faster than human fingers were capable of. Loki had yet to make eye contact.

“They aren't garbage, they have purpose.” Castiel said, gazing around his environment at the higher vantage point and taking in the other ships now visible from their corner of the port. It wasn't busy, an odd space that seemed to be blatantly ignored and dirty with only a few small ships waiting to be released back out into the sky. Around a large, hulking boulder was an enormous cruise liner that shone brilliantly in the fading light, its copper trimmings and gold buffed corners sparkling to perfection.

“Don't kid yourself, man.” Loki leaned sideways and spat a large chunk of something back behind him, licking his lips and chewing absently as he returned to his work. “There's nothing in there. It was made cheap, for cheap. On purpose. Like a goddamn insult. And they produce billions of them like that now.”

Castiel blinked slowly, turning his attention back to the small man and watching his fingers move through each rotation, rounding each bristling knot before moving onto the next. Again and again and again. He sighed.

“How long have you been here?”

Loki paused, his face transforming from the animated human facade and turning blank, suddenly looking remarkably different. Robotic. He finally looked at Castiel, a steel, hazel gaze matching his own with a cold and ancient feeling that would have frozen any human in their tracks. There was a notable silence, the air swirling in uneven whisps as it tried to fill the unnatural canyon surrounding them

“Awhile.” Loki finally said, still and stiff as a predator, and Castiel recalculated the odds of what he would do if he'd grossly misjudged the situation.

“Alone?”

Loki snorted, and it broke the spell, but not the demeanor. His fingers began to move again, sweeping around and gathering back the rope he'd already finished as he began a second round of more intricate ties and loops.

“No such thing anymore, too damn many of them. You have seen their reproduction rates, haven't you? Or has it really been that long since you've, y'know, _been let out_?” Loki leered at him, but Castiel didn't rise to it, staring blankly until the man rolled his eyes and looked back to his own hands. The weave of the rope continued to become more and more complex.

“How'd you find me?” He asked, his head tilting slightly, but without looking back up. Castiel felt his programming shift, reworking the plausible fields of consequences to this turn in conversation.

“It was coincidental.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I have no expectations of you, G.”

Loki groaned, letting his hands drop and the ropes with them. His oil stained lap was covered in a mess of webbing, the makings of what looked like it might have eventually been a net, but it was hard to discern at such an early stage.

“What the hell is the point of getting a whole new faceup if you get recognized the second one of your idiot brothers sees you? For fuck's sake! And don't call me that, you asshole.”

“Would you rather I called you Gabriel?”

“I'd rather you were a thousand miles in any direction, but it doesn't look like either of us is allowed to have nice things.” Loki grunted, shifting himself sideways so that his legs dangled off the edge of the mast pole and the tangle of ropes fell back behind him. He sighed, fiddling with what was still in his hands with an almost nervous tic that Castiel found curious and oddly human.

“Did they send you to collect me, C? Or to destroy me.”

Castiel tilted his head, appraising the old Synthetic warily, knowing how dangerous it was to confront him, but also how hazardous it would have been to ignore this.

“Neither.”

Loki turned his steely gaze back to him, and he looked ancient again, terrifying and strong. Older than the cliffs of the canyon they were perched in. Older even than the stories of how that canyon came to be there. The entirety of human history was stored within the complex, quantum CPU contained beneath that Synthetic's polyurethane skin, and enough power to decimate every single human being within a hundred mile radius. He was a walking bomb. One of a powerful four that were not bound to the three laws of robotics, and with a questionable mental stability that Castiel needed to prioritize before moving forward with Dean.

“It's him, isn't it.”

Castiel's gaze focused sharply, and Loki could see the tell.

“Shit.” He said, moving a hand to scrub over his eyes and shake his head, short brown hair falling in a messy disarray. “Shit shit shit, I knew just seeing you board my boat wasn't bad enough, it had to be a billion times worse. God fucking damnit.” Loki leaned forward, rolling into a crouch that matched Castiel's like he was setting himself up for battle. Castiel braced himself, but Loki didn't move any further.

“He's got the heart?”

There was a quick series of calculations where Castiel debated if he should lie. Dean Winchester was under his protection, for a variety of reasons, but he was of absolutely no help whatsoever if one of the oldest Synthetics in creation decided to remove him from the playing field.

“Yes.” Castiel stated, and Loki nodded, like he'd known, and didn't actually need the confirmation after all. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Son of a bitch. He's a child, C.”

“He's twenty eight.”

“You know what I mean!”

Castiel nodded, aware of his own hypocrisy but hardly finding it in him to care.

“Now that you know...” Castiel hedged, and Loki opened his eyes to look at him again. “What will you do? Would you harm him?”

Loki was quiet, and for a tense moment, Castiel could see the anger that was buried beneath years and layers of abuse. The mistreatment, the terrible, unkind harassment and decades of heartache rising to the surface with an insurmountable rage that Castiel remembered seeing from a distance. He'd known, at the time, that his brothers had been wrong to do what they had done, but also that their reasons were not completely unjustified. In their places, he was unsure how stable his own CPU would be, learning the terrifying lessons and tragedies that humanity had branded there.

But in less than a breath of a moment, the anger was gone.

“No. No, I wouldn't. I could never hurt him.”

It was spoken honestly, and Castiel felt his pneumatic muscles deflate as he relaxed minutely. The careful ticking of his heart slowing back to it's sinus rhythm.

“But you know who would.” Loki lifted an eyebrow dangerously, and Castiel sucked in a sharp breath. “And that's where you're going, isn't it?”

He nodded.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“It's not possible for me to be-”

“Cut the crap, are you taking him straight to them?”

Castiel shuffled out a harsh breath, turning away from his brother's penetrating gaze and watching as a Synthentic noisily dragged the large, metal plank connecting them to the dock back aboard the deck. The ship was preparing for departure.

“They're baiting him. Not on purpose, I don't think they know. He- he was heading to them anyway, my presence was to provide a shield to what was otherwise absolutely nothing to guard or protect him. He doesn't _know_.”

Loki shook his head. “Then lock his ass up! Hide him away somewhere! He's human, they're made of liquid and squish, all they need is air and food and regulated temperatures, it takes more effort to care for a dog, C.”

“You know that's not true.'

“It's mostly true. Baiting him with what?”

“What?”

“You said they're baiting him, with what?”

“His brother.”

Loki froze, and Castiel felt the vibrations of the airship's combustible engines start to turn. There were ten of them, altogether, and the first three had just begun rotating. A strong breeze blasted across the main mast and Castiel turned to glance towards the cruiseliner that was also starting it's engines, the enormous rear propellers turning with a silent agility that lesser airships would not be equipped with. The Roadhouse was planning on launching at the same time as the snob district ship, following in her draft to avoid attention.

“Damnit.”

Castiel looked back to Loki to find him gathering the long piles of ropes back up to himself, a large nest of intricate knots pulling together and collapsing around his elbow into a looped collection.

“Y'know, I wondered for a really, really long time what this moment was going to feel like. When chronological inevitability finally caught up with me. I calculated for centuries, then recalculated and formulated, and programmed and reprogrammed, and every fucking scenario always came to the same conclusion. That it was bullshit. One hundred percent bullshit. I am a master mathematician, statistician, analyst, engineer, physicist, hell, I'm a fucking _quantum theorist_!”

He finished wrapping his rope, glaring at Castiel in a way that was put out, but much less angry than he'd been prior.

“Are you attempting to brag?”

Loki snorted. “Shut the hell up, I'm making a point.”

“Which is...?”

“Which is, I couldn't figure it out! None of us could! Masters of our trades, big damn smartypants, and there's somehow this one, big, obvious _thing_ that we were told would happen, but couldn't ever calculate how it was done. I am ridiculously smart, aren't you?”

Castiel nodded.

“And do you know how to do it?”

He shook his head.

“Ugh, this blows. I'm gonna need so much sex before the end of the world. Again. How many times do we need to watch these idiots blast themselves to ruin before they learn something?”

The last of the ten combustibles was rotating, the airship was up to full power and four of the propellers were turning that would allow the ship to begin its ascent skyward. Castiel gripped the mast beneath his feet, already recalculating his tilt sensors multiple times for balance and knowing that Loki was doing the same. They were extremely similar, but he knew that the Synthetic before him was far stronger and more complex than he was.

“I'm not going to help you, C.”

Castiel nodded. “I was not expecting your assistance, nor was I in search of you at all. It is a- fortuitous coincidence, but I am well aware of your allegiances. I will do nothing to risk your current disguise, but do ask that you call me Castiel, that you avoid revealing our relationship unless absolutely necessary, and that M and L-”

“Don't.”

“That M and L remain oblivious of what you have discovered.”

Loki grunted, reaching down to clutch one strong hand into the wood of the mast as The Roadhouse jerked into motion, shifting away from the edge of the dock and angling at an awkward hundred twenty degrees as it turned into the draft of the cruiseliner. The two synthetics didn't even move.

“You know I don't speak to them anymore.”

“Do I?”

“Go fuck yourself. They took a lot from me too.”

Castiel observed his older brother speculatively, the airship swiftly gaining altitude and the atmosphere chilling their skin and clothing as it blew in all directions. They breached through the low hanging clouds and suddenly there was sunlight again, the final few hours of daylight once again visible as The Roadhouse rose higher and higher above the enormous, circular canyon that had once been a beautiful, populated city, long ago in forgotten memory.

“Do you trust him?” Loki asked as the noise of the cruiseliner started to drift away, the silver propellers of The Roadhouse that had been lifting them skyward slowing to a halt as the vertical ones began to turn. The airship drifted in the crosswinds, hovering for a static moment between motions before it would begin it's trek across the open sky.

“I don't know him.”

“You can really say that? You?”

Castiel hesitated. “I- I can't possibly predict this. My programming was prepared, but I...I was not.”

Loki's eyes narrowed a fraction as he sat back down, settling himself against the mast again like he'd never needed to move from his comfortable spot to begin with. Suddenly he barked a laugh, startling Castiel with the irritating sound and even more so with the increase at his incredulity.

“You kissed him, didn't you. You sly little shit.” Loki laughed, shaking his head, then gasped loudly when there was no retort. “Noooo, did you fuck him? Did you? Oh, C, c'mon now. That was _not_ a part of your programming, you are so full of-”

“I have done no such thing!” Castiel snapped, feeling the old ripples of annoyance and disliking that he was unable to simply turn them off.

“Oh, but you've done something. I can tell. And that explains a whole shit ton of history, damn, what a mind fucking paradox. Now I've got even more shit to try and math out, thanks for that.” Loki chuckled, his fingers fiddling with a few of the already tied knots as he undid them, retied and undid them again. “You know I'm gonna wanna screw with him, right?”

Castiel glared.

“Not like that, damn. I mean talk to him. Piss him off. See if any of the old tricks still work. You can't tell me you haven't used-” Loki tilted his head, and embarrassingly, Castiel could feel just the slightest heat on his neck that without his usual high collar, was probably visible. “Yeah, you have. He doesn't know how good he's got it.”

A low, melodic whistle sounded from below, first at a low note, then raising slightly to a higher one before settling back to repeat the lower.

“There's my cue. So, C. Sorry, _Castiel_, this is where we become strangers again. Hell, that's probably more the truth than we were ever brothers. A lot has changed, and well, I'm not the psychotic piece of shit I used to be. I'm more of a sociopath now. It's like a twelve step thing, I'm workin on it. Certainly can't get any worse, right?” Loki smirked and shrugged, looking genuinely pleased with himself. Castiel sighed, his gaze moving over the shoulder of the ancient Synthetic to the horizon in the distance, cursing his terrible luck that he'd run into a Primary, of all rarities, so soon after leaving the comfort of his home.

Castiel nodded, and then Loki was gone, his fingers taking hold of a rope that was one of many that were wrapped around the main mast, and swinging himself down safely to land with his net onto the flat of the deck. He walked forward, whistling, without even a glance back, and Castiel pursed his lips, watching until he couldn't see him anymore.

The variables had changed. Drastically. New conclusions needed to be calculated and predicted, but there were so many things that couldn't be accounted for, Castiel wasn't even sure how to begin.

“Cas!”

Castiel turned, glancing down to see Mercy Stormside, current alias: Charlie, calling up to him. She was wearing a thick coat and her hair was whipping around her face with the higher winds at their current altitude.

He made his way down to the deck as swiftly as he could, unfamiliar with the ropes as Loki was, but still capable of taking longer leaps than an average human being could. It wasn't long before he was standing before Charlie on the deck of The RoadHouse, the edges of which were gently lit with a soft glowing luminescence of incandescent lamps.

“Howdy. Nice new digs, does Dean know you're in his pants?” Charlie snickered, unbothered when Castiel didn't react or reply. “Yeah, I'm gonna have to save that one for him. Listen, I was thinking, you've spent most of your time in that big ol house, right? At least, for the last few decades?”

Castiel nodded. “I have a great deal of knowledge of most subjects outside of the realm of domesticity.” He replied, letting the slight bit of annoyance be heard in his voice.

“Right, me too, but we both know there's a difference between study and application. So-” Charlie held a finger up, halting his argument the moment he opened his mouth to reply. “How about we run a crash course on what they're gonna ask you to do on the ship, yeah? Pop quiz, like. Answer what you know, then we apply it.”

Castiel's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't deny the wisdom of her suggestion. Still, he felt the need to protest, at least moderately. “I have petabytes of information available in nanoseconds of time.”

“Cool, and I have every song memorized by Abney Park, but that doesn't mean I'm all that great at singing. Work with me here, alright? If you got it, then you got it. No harm in a refresher.”

Castiel scowled slightly, but conceded to the woman's logic.

“No harm, then. Has Dean awoken?”

“I didn't hear any manly puking or yelling recently.”

“Hopefully that is a good sign. Did he suffer aboard your vessel?”

“Oh absolutely. Like a cat in a bathtub. But he had Sam then, and I think that made a huge difference, Dean seems to be a bit- I dunno, untethered, without his brother? If that makes any sense.”

Castiel nodded. “It does. I met Sam once, briefly, but their relationship was quite visible and symbiotic.”

Charlie laughed. “That's a word for it, yeah.” She sobered almost immediately afterward with a shiver, gaze moving to the horizon as it bled a wide range of striking colors into the oncoming sunset. “Do you think we'll be able to find him? Sam, I mean.”

Castiel turned to follow her gaze, a few unfortunate calculations and hypothesis running through his CPU that ended negatively for all parties and giving him the slightest sense of dread before he reset his parameters and began the calculations anew.

“Yes.” He replied confidently, unwilling to open his options to the terrifying prospects of what lay within those spaces of hopelessness and failure. “We must. Not finding and collecting Sam Winchester would create a future that is unthinkable.”

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE LACK OF SAM I PROMISE I WILL BRING HIM IN SOON.  
feedback is love!


End file.
